


Still

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: The hardest part is going on. (09/27/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers: 1.11 "Cold Front," 1.24 "Desert Crossing."  
  
This is an AU and Deathfic, breaking from canon during 1.24 "Desert Crossing." It was also published in _Getting From There To Here 1_.  
  
Many thanks and condolences to my betas: Squeakylightfoot and Kageygirl. Thanks especially to Squeaky for her suggestions that ended up as parts 6 and 7.  


* * *

> There's no secret to living,  
> Just keep on walking.
> 
> —UNKLE, 'Lonely Soul'

### 1.

The shuttle will only be stopped for seconds. They don't have time for more than that.

T'Pol is ready, at the opening hatch. Malcolm is concentrating, preparing to take off again, his fingers flying over the helm controls. But he still glances over his left shoulder, just to see.

T'Pol reaches, braces herself against the deck, heaves. Malcolm catches a glimpse of raw, sunburned flesh, dirty, red-blond hair. Dead weight. T'Pol lays him down on the deck, gently. Too gently. She crouches next to him.

She's not moving to help him, Malcolm thinks. Why isn't she moving? Surely he must need water. He looks at his hands on the controls; there isn't time to think about anything but the launch, getting the shuttle in the air again, away from the bombs and the planet.

Malcolm glances back, to see Zorbral helping to pull in Archer. Archer climbs in like Trip should have, but didn't. Then the Captain just...lets go. Sinks cross-legged to the deck. He puts his face in his hands.

Malcolm turns around again. He has to get the shuttle in the air. He has to concentrate, follow Zorbral's route exactly, or they won't get back to the ship.

And if he doesn't look, if he hasn't seen anything it can't be true. None of it has to be true.

The shuttle trembles as it lifts off. Sloppy. Malcolm works quickly to correct the yaw.

He doesn't listen to what is happening behind him. He has to concentrate, to fly the ship. So he's not listening to T'Pol as she works, trying to make Trip's heart beat. Doesn't hear her command to Archer: _help me_. Does not hear Archer fumbling as he stands.

That tiny, horrible sound that cannot be a sob.

Malcolm blinks, and his eyes are wet. He doesn't have time for that. His hands are not shaking. He refuses to accept that his hands might be shaking.

### 2.

The shuttle pod is cool, probably no more than 23 degrees. Archer can feel the sweat on his back like ice, like there isn't enough blood in his veins. Might be going into shock, he thinks. None of this seems real; he wasn't wounded.

He tries to stand, but the shuttle's climbing too quickly, though he still manages to pull himself over to Trip. T'Pol has moved the commander so that he's on his back. His hands are lying flat, palm- down on the deck. They're badly red.

Trip is not breathing. Archer isn't sure when he stopped. Somewhere out in the desert, maybe, or when the bombs hit. Was Trip breathing when he was trying to shield him from the bombs? He can't remember. Why can't he remember?

T'Pol is trying to give Trip CPR, her strong fists moving rhythmically on his chest. Fifteen beats, two breaths, fifteen beats more. But Trip won't breathe. He was always stubborn.

She looks up at Archer. Her brown eyes are flashing. There is a wildness to them that belies the calm of her voice when she speaks. "Help me," she says.

The first aid kit is in the back of the shuttle. He can get that. It seems to take an inordinately long time for every thought. He can't believe how slowly everything is moving, but of course that means they'll be able to revive Trip, then. They've got to have enough time.

Archer sways when he stands, but Zorbral grabs him before he can fall. The large man's expression is apologetic, almost ashamed. He opens his mouth to speak but Archer has to get the first aid kit and ignores him. They wouldn't even be here if it weren't for Zorbral.

Zorbral grabs the kit nimbly, before Archer can even move, then crosses over to Trip's other side and kneels, ripping it open. Archer watches as T'Pol searches the small kit with her eyes, grabs the airbag. She presses it over Trip's mouth, puts Zorbral's hands on it, shows him how it works. She goes back to compressing Trip's chest. Five beats this time, then air.

Archer stands, dizzy, one hand holding onto a jutting piece of metal to keep from falling. He waits, and it feels like his heart is a stone, heavy and painful as a stone. Zorbral watches T'Pol's hands, pumps the bag when she tells him. He is so far from what he knows here, Archer thinks. He almost feels badly for him.

Trip's chest rises as his lungs inflate, then falls again. Nothing else happens. Trip is very still.

They keep doing this, exchanging heartbeats and air, until Archer counts to sixty. T'Pol leans forward, two fingers pressed to Trip's sunburned throat, just under his jaw. She waits. Zorbral watches, still holding the airbag over Trip's face. His expression is serious, concerned.

There is no movement from the body, no breath from the lungs. T'Pol closes her eyes; her nostrils flare delicately as she inhales. When she opens them again, Zorbral is waiting for instructions. She gives him the slightest shake of her head.

"No," Archer says softly, but it's not even a denial. In his head, though, in his head he's screaming. He takes a step forward, collapses to his knees next to T'Pol. He tries to push her aside. Why has she stopped? Why isn't she trying anything else? She takes his wrist and her fingers are cool and very strong.

"He is dead, Captain," she says. "There is no point."

"The hell he is!" Archer spits back at her. He goes to start the CPR again. T'Pol's hand is still on his wrist, but she glances at Zorbral and lets go. Archer links his hands over Trip's heart, locking his elbows as he pushes to have all his weight behind it. The commander's ribs give inward beneath his hands, already cracked from T'Pol's attempts to revive him. He'll be badly bruised, Archer thinks. When he recovers.

T'Pol just watches him, sitting back on her heels. Her dark eyes are hooded and silent. Archer ignores her, doesn't ask her to help. She's already given up. It's logical to give up, he thinks. But he's human. Humans don't do that. And he won't. He won't.

Zorbral is watching him, now. When he sees Archer start more compressions he puts the air bag back over Trip's nose and mouth.

Archer sobs, just once, but that's giving up and he won't do that. Instead he pumps Trip's heart with his hands: five beats and then Zorbral breathes for him. Five beats, and breathe...

### 3.

There is a part of Sick bay that is the starship's morgue. It is quiet, and cool, stark and shining with metal.

It does not yet smell like death; this is the first time it's had to be used.

Trip is lying on the metal table, demurely covered by a white sheet. Malcolm supposes it's so no one can see the autopsy scars.

He stands at the "at-ease" position, his hands clasped behind his back, head slightly bent as he looks down at the shrouded face. He can't feel anything at all.

Phlox left him alone, here. He wouldn't have done that normally, Malcolm thinks. Not with Hoshi or Travis or the captain. T'Pol, he is sure, has already accepted this death, dealt with it in the same objective way her people deal with all things. He can't imagine her needing to see the corpse. But Malcolm...Malcolm knows that Phlox has no fear for him. He thinks the lieutenant will be all right with this silent body; will appreciate the moment alone; will be able to give his tasteful, appropriate goodbyes and move on.

He doesn't know that inside Malcolm is nothing but ice and fire. Part of him already dead, the rest cut apart and screaming. But his hands don't shake. He is proud of the strength in his hands.

Malcolm reaches for the sheet, gently pulls it back, and it's like someone else is doing this: someone who is still all right and whole and sane.

Commander Charles Tucker is still sunburned. That will never go away, now. He looks peaceful, his eyes are closed. Phlox did a good job: you have to look carefully to see the stitching. Malcolm has been trained to look carefully.

He wants to lift one of the eyelids—gently—just to see the blue again. But he doesn't. It's too intrusive, far too intimate somehow. And in any case he knows the color will be milky, already wrong.

Instead he reaches to the forehead, brushes the hair gently back. The skin is so painfully red he half expects it to be warm, dry and hot like a fever. But of course Trip's skin is cold. Cool now, finally, after the heat that killed him.

Malcolm blinks away the water in his eyes. His face is wet, but he can ignore that. Water, he thinks. Water might have saved him.

But it doesn't matter now, none of that matters.

He gently takes the sheet again, places it over the cool, silent face. After that it's just a shape under a white cloth. Just a shape.

No need to say goodbye.

### 4.

The funeral is sparse, and clean. Nothing fancy. Travis thinks Trip would have liked it.

Archer gives the eulogy from the catwalk, just above the shuttle bay. Shuttle Pod One—where Trip almost died of cold—is primed for launch, waiting.

Cold didn't kill him. In the end it was heat. Now his body too will be consumed by fire.

Travis is inside the shuttle, wearing an EVA suit. He waits by the coffin. When the shuttle launches, he will fly it in orbit over the planet, turn off the artificial gravity, then open the shuttle door and push the coffin out. The coffin will tumble into the atmosphere, and burn.

It seems more dignified, to end it this way. Fitting. And Travis is glad he was the one chosen to fly. This way he can do something for Trip: a final gift, a good burial. Something the commander would have liked.

Travis stands next to the coffin. His helmet is off; the shuttle's doors are open so he can listen to the words. Archer speaks beautifully, but to Travis it doesn't sound right, not quite like him. Archer seems distant, detached, like it's his voice but someone else speaking. Travis hopes that the captain will be okay—he's been in Sick bay for days.

He's crying softly, but it's not because of the captain's words. It's not even because Trip is dead. The commander is just gone. None of this can affect Trip anymore. He has been completed, finished. Brought away from everything. Being dead is not the hardest part. The hardest part is going on.

Travis is crying for everyone who has to continue: who has to go on, and work, and walk and live and breathe now that Trip is gone. Now that he's never coming back.

Missing someone isn't the hardest part, either. The hardest part is knowing the missing will never stop.

### 5.

In her dreams, she saves him.

In her dreams, she does everything right: the translations are fluid and instant. She understands every word spoken on every part of the planet. She knows that Zorbral is rebellious, deceitful, lying. She knows immediately that his men are fugitives and criminals. That his invitation is a trap, that his camp will be bombed.

In her dreams, Hoshi tells the captain. Archer does not even pick up Zorbral's ship, the rebel has to continue on without his great liberator. In her dreams, she can even be generous enough to feel sorry for him. It must be dreadful, after all, to live under a brutal regime. She can understand.

But her crew is more important. The captain and the commander are far too important to risk, to send down to unknown planets, potential danger.

"I could have died down there," Trip tells her. "I might've died, if it wasn't for you." And his blue eyes are awed, adoring.

And she is so grateful, just to be able to help. She is so proud.

And when he leans in to kiss her, his lips...

But the morning always comes. And everything and nothing is the same.

### 6.

"You are failing the crew, Captain," Malcolm says. The three pips look strange on his uniform. He isn't sure he'll ever get used to them. Even now, standing at attention in the captain's quarters, he has to force himself not to touch them, run his hands over the tiny squares of metal, to try and tear them out.

He hates them. But he has his duty.

"Sir," he says, and the captain finally looks at him. His eyes were green once, Malcolm remembers. They still are, of course, but now it's as if he can't see the color in them. Archer is all like that, all the way through him: like dry and bleached bone. Archer's hands are on his knees, fingers splayed. They've gotten thin.

"They need you," Malcolm says, and Archer just looks at him. "They need a leader, sir. They're lost. They need to know what to do."

Archer just looks at him. His head is tilted a bit, as if this is something he has never considered, never even imagined. "We are continuing our mission, Commander," he says. "They know what their orders are."

"They need more than that, sir," Malcolm says. "They need direction, and focus." His eyes drift quickly to the right, though he has thought of what he would say here many times. On the dresser, half empty, is a small bottle of pills. Just take them all, he thinks. The words are unbidden and startling. He is sure he doesn't want the captain dead. "They need their captain back," he says. "They need to know that they still have a purpose out here, that there's a point to what we're doing."

Archer smiles: tolerant and weary and so, so incredibly sad. "Is there?" is all that he says. "Is there really?"

And Malcolm doesn't know how to answer him.

### 7.

That night, Archer dreams:

He is in Crewman Daniels' quarters, but the time-traveler is not dead, was never killed by the Suliban.

"I want him back," Archer tells him. "I know you can do it."

Daniels smiles pleasantly. "No," he says. "I'm sorry."

"This isn't right," Archer says. "This can't be what was meant to happen. He should be alive."

Daniels shrugs. "Maybe," he says, "but it doesn't matter—it hasn't changed the timeline."

"No," Archer says. He steps forward, angry now. "You can't tell me it doesn't matter. You can't tell me it makes no difference if Trip is here or not." He is taller than the crewman, glares down at him.

Daniels looks up at him blandly. "I'm sorry, Jonathan," he says.

Archer moves back then, unclenches his fists. "Please," he says at last, quietly. "I'll do anything."

Daniels' face is apologetic. "I'm really sorry."

Archer wakes because Porthos is on the bed, stepping on his chest. His breath is ragged, like he's been running. His hands are clenched so tightly his arms shake.

Porthos whines, lapping at his sweat and tears.

### 8.

On the view screen, Admiral Forrest's expression is serious, his eyes sympathetic and sad. "The _Surak_ should be there in two days," he says.

"Thank you," says Captain Reed. "And the crew I requested?"

Forrest nods. "They'll be there." He smiles, "They're apparently very eager to join _Enterprise_."

"That's good," Malcolm says. He smiles as well. "It will be good to have some new enthusiasm. Thank you," he says again, but his hand hesitates over the termination key.

Forrest notices this, waits. "Captain?"

"He's not ill, you know," Malcolm says quietly, "it's just...Things stopped mattering."

"I understand," Forrest says. "They were very close..." he looks uncomfortable; his eyes flicker but don't rest on anything. "We'll take good care of him, Captain. You can rest assured about that."

"I'm glad," Malcolm says simply. "Goodnight, Admiral." He reaches out again, turns the screen off.

Malcolm sits at his desk in the ready room. Absently, his fingers trace along the four pips near his shoulder. Once, there were only two, then three, now four, with gold stripes where red used to be. But he has gained nothing, just lost so much in return.

The pips feel heavy, and wrong. But he has his duty. His duty matters; the ship needs him.

"Lieutenant Sato," he says, pressing the comm. "Please make sure the _Surak_ has our coordinates."

"Yes, sir," she answers him, and there is relief in her voice.

The ship still matters, thinks Captain Reed. The ship still matters, and her crew. Those are the only things.

And he holds on to that, just as hard as he can.

### 9.

The _Surak_ will dock with them in eight hours. Archer and Porthos walk the decks, one last time.

Archer is dressed in civilian clothes. He feels...Maybe he feels relieved. Mostly he feels nothing.

I should be missing these people, he thinks, these decks—the bridge. But he doesn't, he can't. It's like his soul has no room.

I'm still alive, he thinks then, but it's like there's no room for that, either. He breathes, he moves, that's all. It's nothing and everything.

They have arrived on B deck. He doesn't come here much, hasn't for a while. But he should, he figures. He won't be seeing it again.

Porthos looks back at him, he's caught a scent. The dog turns and runs, trotting down the corridor. He stops in front of a single metal door.

Porthos sits in front of it, well behaved and patient. He looks at Archer again. He whines, softly, then lifts his paw once and scrapes it against the door.

"C'mon, boy," Archer says. The dog looks at him.

"C'mon, Porthos," Archer calls him. The dog turns, reluctantly. He whines again.

"Porthos!" A command, and Porthos finally trots back to him.

Archer kneels on the deck, gently rubs his beagle's ears between his hands. "I'm sorry, boy," he says quietly. "He's not there anymore. There's no one to see."

It's getting late, and there are several other decks to visit. Archer stands. He's about to walk back towards the turbo lift. He whistles for Porthos to follow him, then stops, steps back to the door.

He goes to open it—he still knows the code—but his fingers trace the metal and stop. He shakes his head, turns and walks away.

There is nothing left there, after all.


End file.
